


you can't go home again

by cre8iveovadose



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, Blood and Injury, Cutting, Gen, Hallucinations, Hurt Peter Parker, Hurt/Comfort, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Post-Spider-Man: Far From Home, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Self-Harm, Spider-Man: Far From Home (Movie) Spoilers, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-02
Updated: 2019-12-02
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:34:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21647620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cre8iveovadose/pseuds/cre8iveovadose
Summary: Peter Parker has been on the run since the media got hold of Mysterio’s video. Struggling to tell what’s real and desperate for a sense of calm as he dodges the authorities, he’s turned to unsavoury coping mechanisms.After six months, he’s made it back to Queens, but there’s no relief at home either. Mysterio ended his life as Spider-Man and now he’s ending his life as Peter Parker, too.
Relationships: Happy Hogan & Peter Parker, Happy Hogan/May Parker (Spider-Man), May Parker (Spider-Man) & Peter Parker, Peter Parker & Tony Stark
Comments: 4
Kudos: 171





	you can't go home again

**Author's Note:**

> Apparently I now project my emotional trauma onto Peter Parker. Welcome to the club, kiddo. This is probably canon and character divergent but I couldn’t get this idea out of my head so please enjoy the Pain™ if that’s your cup of tea.

_“An American writer of my acquaintance titled one of his books_ You Can’t Go Home Again _,  
__but he was not necessarily talking to you.”  
— Lemony Snicket_

* * *

Peter Parker had been on the run for six months now. As soon as he’d seen the manipulated footage from his stand-off with Mysterio, he’d known his life as Spider-Man was over. The reporters had inundated the street, the police had broken down the apartment door, but he’d fled already. With nothing but his backpack and his suit, Peter ran from the city without looking back.

Life on the run was harsh and made harsher by the ways his mind was shorting on him. Peter had tried hitching rides on trains but whenever their horns blared or the wheels crunched over a join in the tracks, his heart would lurch in his chest and he’d bite back a scream. He’d feel his bones crunch and his muscles shake until he was able to remind himself that he was on top of the train, not slammed into the side of it.

The first time he’d had a flashback, he’d called Aunt May on a payphone, tears streaming down his face as he yanked at his hair, trying to pull the memories out of his head.

“I can’t forget about it, May,” he’d groaned. “It just keeps happening over and over again.”

“Sweetie, you’ve gotta come home,” she’d said. “Happy says he can keep you safe, that the other Avengers can hide you, that they’re gonna sort this out.”

“I can’t. I can’t put you in danger.”

“Pete, I’ve been in danger since you first put on that suit. Just let me help you, please.”

“I have to go. I love you.”

“Peter-”

He’d hung up, wiped his face, and started walking.

When Peter made it to Chicago, he braved a homeless shelter, hoping for a shower if nothing else. There were other kids there, the same haunted look in their eyes he knew he now bore. Some of them were traumatised from The Blip. Some of them were just messed up. All of them said they wished they could just forget.

He only stayed one night. He had his shower and, upon finally looking in a mirror for the first time in a month, realised he needed a shave. He’d never really needed one before but the tiny curling hairs itched. He found a razor in the bottom of his backpack and managed a decent lather of soap and warm water.

As he dragged the disposable blades over his chin, he couldn’t forget how easy it would be to press down, to slice into himself. There wasn’t much damage to be done - the blade was dulled already. He shook the thought from his head and kept going. But when his face was clean and he’d washed the razor out, he couldn’t see a reason not to dig it into his wrist and see what happened.

Flickers of thoughts flashed through his mind as he held the blade over the inside of his wrist. The deserted planet where Thanos had blown him away. The look on Mr Stark’s face when he’d snapped his fingers. Saving MJ from the Fire Elemental. His skin crawled and his teeth dug into his cheeks as he drew the blade across his arm.

Peter’s nerves burned and blood welled up in minuscule droplets as all of his fear fell out of his head. Calm rushed through him and he leaned his head back, sighing deep relief. He closed his eyes. He could feel like this forever.

The tiny wound started to sting so he cut another line. And another. And another. The cuts bit angrily but they didn’t really hurt. He’d need more than a dull, disposable razor to get any real relief but this would do for now. He washed out the blade once more and wrapped a paper towel over his wrist. He put his things into his backpack, tugged down the sleeve of his jacket, and headed back out into the night.

After a quick stop at a drug store for new razorblades and bandages, Peter headed for the rooftops. He swung through the streets of Chicago until he got to Union Station. Sneaking through the barriers, he hopped a train headed west. This time, whenever the sound of the railway made his mind scream, he took out a blade and dug into his arm until the world felt real again.

Aunt May would kill him if she found out but she wouldn’t. Peter couldn’t go home again. She wouldn’t have to worry.

Peter spent the fall walking down the west coast. There were fewer memories out here, fewer triggers to remind him of Mysterio or Thanos or Vulture. But when he’d wake up crying from nightmares or felt like something was following him, he had a solution. He didn’t care that his arms were irreparably scarred or that all his clothes were stained with just a little bit of blood. He wasn’t entrapped by his memories anymore and that was enough.

The heat was starting to die down from Mysterio’s video now. Every now and then there’d be a newspaper headline about the hunt for Spider-Man or how the UN was trying to form new legislation about superheroes and their function in society. Sometimes Rhodey gave interviews, or Doctor Strange, but mostly it was just civilians wondering who they could really trust. Not Spider-Man, not this kid from Queens who’d lied to everyone he knew, he was not to be trusted.

Peter didn’t want to know about any of it. He just wanted to hide.

He made it to San Francisco but quickly realised it was not a safe place for him. People here were sympathetic to him, saying they were on his side and that a superhero who’d helped save the world wouldn’t turn on that world mere months later. His face was everywhere and he knew he couldn’t hide. He decided to start heading back east.

Riding on top of a bus was easier than riding a train but there was a constant sense of vulnerability on a bus. Peter couldn’t bind himself with web fluid to the vehicle the way he had on the trains. He felt like something was watching him.

One night as he sailed across Nebraska, Peter lay staring up at the stars when he thought he saw a flash of lightning among grey rainclouds. The light seared his eyes and slammed him back to the day he’d met Mysterio with his fishbowl helmet full of storms. His body twisted away from the memory but Beck was getting closer, coming at him from all sides.

Peter grabbed his backpack and tried to swing it at Beck but he kept missing. He yelled with force as he swung again but only served to knock himself off balance. His legs slipped on the metal of the bus’s roof and he skidded over the side. Crying out, Peter grappled for a handhold, feeling the fingers of one hand grip an edge between two planes of steel. His legs dangled over the side, his backpack swung from the crook of his elbow, and he heard the wind roar in his ears as he tried to push and pull himself up.

Beck stood over him, his cape flapping in the breeze, as he smirked down at him. “Look at the little spider fly.” He reached for Peter’s hand and pried up his fingers before shoving Peter off the roof to the ground below.

Peter braced for impact but when he hit the ground, he only found himself on top of the bus again. His breath was coming in ragged gasps and his chest ached with the pounding of his heart. He clawed at his chest and dragged his fingers through his hair as he looked around. There were no rainclouds, no capes, no revenge-crazed scientists desperate for his demise.

He jerked around to look over his shoulder. Nothing there either. For now.

Groaning, Peter drew his knees up and leaned his head forward as he wrapped his arms around himself. He felt nauseous and dizzy and he wanted it to stop. He could still feel Beck’s fingers clawing at his own, see the wild look in his eyes as he launched him through the air.

Lifting his head, Peter looked to his backpack where he’d secured it to the bus roof. He reached into the front pocket for his razor blade. The tiny rectangle was dull in the moonless night but when he drew back his sleeve and dug into his wrist, Peter felt its sharpness like ice on a hot day. It cleared his mind and brought him back to himself. This was real and so was he and he could control this suffering if he had to.

And he had to. Whether he went home or not, he had to find a way to keep Beck out of his head.

Peter kept moving. He kept cutting. He kept reminding himself of what was real with blood and pain and tried to forget the reason he was on the road. But when he got to Ohio, that became impossible.

The FBI had put a bounty on his head. A million dollars for anyone who could bring in the kid who’d destroyed London’s Tower Bridge. For immediate and permanent imprisonment.

Peter had run from the grocery store he’d been trying to steal granola bars from. He’d run from the town into the surrounding woods where he collapsed beneath a tree and wretched around the nothing in his stomach. He couldn’t even be seen anymore. They were still sure he’d controlled those drones. They were determined to make him pay for a crime he’d stopped, not committed.

What would Aunt May be doing now? Would Happy still be looking for him? Would the Avengers still help him?

Peter twisted around to lean back against a tree, throwing his head back and staring up at the branches crisscrossing overhead. His wrists burned, itching with need, for a distraction from this torment. Without looking, he plucked the blade from his backpack and started cutting. He drew parallel lines across his right wrist until his thoughts slowed down enough to start figuring out where to go next.

The only thing he wanted was calm. The only place he could even begin to get that was home. But he couldn’t go home without putting everyone he loved in danger.

Though they’d only be in danger if he stayed home.

Peter looked back towards the town. If the authorities only wanted to lock him up and throw away the key, why not save them the bother of feeding him, dressing him, keeping him occupied? There was a much simpler solution. But he needed to see Aunt May first.

He needed to say goodbye.

It took him a week to get back to New York and a further three days to make it to the apartment in Queens. He hopped over rooftops or snuck down alleys, pausing for hours in places where he couldn’t be seen until he was sure it was safe. He climbed the building next door and swung over to the fire escape. He climbed through his window into his old room where he quickly changed into clean clothes before creeping down the hall. He could hear Aunt May talking to someone in the kitchen and paused by the door.

“- gotta find him, Happy. He can’t just run from the authorities forever. They’ll catch him and things will be so much worse than before.”

“We’re working on it, honey,” Happy said, sounding more genuinely emotional than Peter had ever heard him. “Barton’s been tracking him, caught sight of him in Kansas, and Strange thinks he knows where to keep him safe when we find him.”

“But when will that be? You keep saying that you’re close but you never find him.”

They fell silent as May dissolved into tears. The floor creaked as Happy moved to comfort her and Peter felt his heart twist in his chest. His wrists itched for the bite of the blade but he couldn’t do that now. He had to wait.

“I promised I’d keep him safe,” Aunt May cried. “I promised nothing bad would happen.”

“This wasn’t your fault, May. No one saw this coming.”

Peter swallowed before he nudged the kitchen door open and stepped into the bright room. Happy looked up and froze while May kept sobbing into his shoulder.

“Aunt May?” Peter said. “I’m back.”

May’s head snapped up and she wiped away her tears before launching herself across the room. She caught him in a strangling hug before she stepped back, holding his shoulders as she looked him over.

“Where the hell have you been?” She whispered, brushing his unkempt hair back from his face and cupping his cheek and squeezing his too-thin arms. “What happened to you?”

“I’m okay, May, I promise,” Peter whispered, hoping she couldn’t sense the utter lie.

Happy got to his feet as May wrapped Peter in another hug.

“Where have you been, kid?” Happy asked. “We’ve been trying to find you.”

“I ran, I just ran. But I’m back now. It’s gonna be okay.”

“We can get you somewhere safe,” Happy said, pulling out his phone. “Fury’s back, he’ll know what to do.”

“No, no, not right now, please.” May stepped away and Peter looked between them. “Please, just give me tonight. Let me just stay here tonight and we can figure this out tomorrow.”

May nodded. “Okay. Okay, Peter, okay. Just - don’t disappear again, please?”

“I won’t, Aunt May.”

Happy huffed and put his phone back in his pocket before he wrapped Peter in a crushing embrace as well. “Don’t you ever do this to us again.”

Peter couldn’t bring himself to lie out loud again. He just nodded against Happy’s shoulder and hoped this wouldn’t hurt.

They spent the night curled up in the living room, Aunt May and Happy catching him up on everything that had happened since he’d been gone. They told him about the investigation into the attack in London but they talked about Ned and MJ and the Avengers too. They ate too little Chinese food, Happy only able to pick up enough for himself and May since the apartment was being watched 24/7. Peter didn’t mind. He couldn’t stomach much food these days anyway.

Happy fell asleep in the armchair but May couldn’t let go of Peter’s hand where they sat on the couch together. The sleeves of his sweater were snug but he was terrified they’d slip up just enough to ruin his return. May couldn’t know what he’d done to himself. Not yet.

“Why did you call me that day?” May asked after they’d been quiet for a while.

“Which day?” Peter asked back, leaning his head against the wall. Being able to stay still in one place felt so strange now - being comfortable had become a novelty without him even noticing.

“The day you called crying, saying you’d imagined yourself being hit by a train again.”

Peter shrugged. “I was just - being out there alone, I just freaked myself out, I guess.”

“That was all it was? It sounded like more than that.”

“I dunno. Maybe. But I’m okay now.”

“Are you really? Because you don’t seem like yourself, Peter. You’re so skinny and your hair’s so long. You flinch at every noise. Did anything happen to you while you were gone?”

Peter thought of the night he thought Beck had tried to throw him from a bus. “Not really. It was just hard. I couldn’t eat or sleep or anything like normal. I was just trying to keep myself safe.”

May frowned. “We could have helped you keep safe, Peter. Happy had a whole plan to get you out of here but you were just - gone.”

“I’m sorry. I know you guys would’ve helped. I just didn’t want anyone to get caught up in my mess.”

“We’re family, we’ll always be caught up in each other’s mess.”

Peter smiled. “I know.” The thought felt sour when he mulled it over again though.

They stayed sitting on the couch most of the night. Peter drifted in and out of sleep but when he woke in the early hours to find Happy and May both snoring away, he crept back to his room and shut the door.

Peter grabbed a piece of paper from his desk and a pen, quickly scribbling down a note that he knew would be of no real comfort to anyone. But they had to know what his plan was.

> _Dear Aunt May,_
> 
> _I’m so sorry. I don’t want to hurt you but I can’t let Beck ruin this superhero thing for anyone else. If I get caught for his lie, none of the others will be able to help people. The world needs heroes and I can make sure they keep them._
> 
> _I’ll love you forever,_
> 
> _Peter_

He folded the page in half and wrote May’s name on the front, leaving it on the desk. He took his razorblades out of his backpack, plucking a fresh one from the box before he put the bag on the floor beside his bed. He slipped out of his shoes and sat down on the edge of the bed, considering the shining silver blade.

Peter heard a rustle and saw Tony Stark had materialised before him.

“Don’t do it, kid,” Mr Stark said.

“I have to,” Peter whispered. “If I die, the world can trust superheroes again.”

“They can learn to trust heroes again without you doing this to yourself.”

“You killed yourself to save the world - how is this different?”

“I _sacrificed_ myself, so that the world would be safe. I didn’t take my own life and hope that others would be able to clear up the mess I’d left behind.”

“I didn’t make this mess!”

“But you’re about to make it worse!”

Peter shook his head and pulled up his sleeves. “They don’t need me to help fix this. I just make everything worse. It’ll be easier if I’m gone.” He dug the blade into his wrist and Tony Stark disappeared as blood poured forth.

With each new cut, Peter felt tears spring to his eyes as blood slipped over his skin. He’d loved being a hero so much. He’d loved helping people. But he couldn’t do that anymore. He had to let go.

Peter changed the angle of the blade to drag it from his wrist to his elbow, crying out as the skin parted with painful ease. Blood flooded around the blade and he felt his brain short out as the pain began to register, searing his nerves and stealing his breath.

Sliding from the bed to the floor, Peter heard the blade clatter to the floor. He tried to reach for it but his arms were leaden and his mind was molten. There was nothing left but the pain.

He looked to the window, the sky outside steadily growing lighter as his vision became steadily clouded over. He knew he was sobbing, knew May and Happy would hear if they woke up. He’d wanted to be gone before they found him. He may not have a choice but to watch them see what he’d done.

When Peter’s consciousness was finally fading, he slumped over onto the floor. His head knocked against his nightstand and something crashed to the floor. There was silence before the floorboards creaked and his door squeaked open.

“Kid, you okay in here?”

 _Happy_.

“Kid? Peter? Peter! Oh no. Oh no. Help, need help. May - no, Strange.”

Peter willed himself asleep, out of earshot, unconscious, anything to stop him having to hear this. Happy knelt over him, carefully trying to check him over. His phone was ringing.

“Strange! I need - Parker came home last night - yes, he needs the safe house but - yes, come get him but - listen! He’s hurt - hurt himself, he’s bleeding out.”

Peter heard the crackling of Doctor Strange’s magic portals and the _whoosh_ of a cape before something landed beside him. Hands grabbed him, jostling his arm and sending flashes of pain through him. His scream turned to a sob and he thrashed against the hands trying to hold him.

“Stay still, Peter,” Doctor Strange shouted. “We’re going to help you.”

“I’ll get his aunt,” Happy said.

“No,” Peter moaned, long and low, as Doctor Strange pressed something to the gaping wound in his arm.

“Knew we shouldn’t have left you alone after Stark died,” Doctor Strange murmured as he wrapped a bandage around Peter’s arm.

There was a rush of footsteps before Aunt May screamed, falling down beside Peter and holding her hands over his head.

“Peter? Oh god, Peter, no, don’t leave me, please!”

“Happy, I need you to carry him. Don’t worry about hurting him, we’ve gotta get him somewhere safe before I can treat him.”

“I’m not leaving you, baby,” Aunt May cried. “I’m right here.”

Peter tried to breathe, to respond, but when Happy picked him up he could only scream. He heard the fizzle of another portal and felt the sharp sting of an injection before everything faded away.

* * *

Waking up felt like breaking free from a web. Every time he thought he could open his eyes, they just stuck back together again. When he felt fingers smoothing back his hair and he tried to lean into the touch, his neck would stiffen. If someone touched his hand, he’d try to move his fingers only to find them tingling with numbness.

Climbing out of his slumber, Peter expected a white hospital room with beeping machines and the smell of disinfectant. Instead, he found dim light and a humming fan and Aunt May’s perfume, since she sat by his bed with his hand folded between her own.

“May,” he whispered. “Aunt May…”

Blinking, she looked over at him and promptly dissolved into tears. “I’m here, Peter, I’m here with you.” She leaned forward to lay a kiss on his forehead.

“Where are we?”

“Doctor Strange brought us to the Sanctum,” Aunt May said. “He put you back together as best he could. You’ve been asleep for a couple days.”

“Are we safe?”

“Of course we are, baby. No one can hurt you here.” She brushed her fingers over his hand. “Not even yourself.”

Peter looked up at the dark ceiling and swallowed around the knot in his throat. “I saw Mr Stark before - before I… I see people that aren’t there, May. I see things that aren’t there - that happened a long time ago.”

“That’s okay. We can help you with that.”

“I don’t wanna lose my mind.”

She swept a hand over his hair. “You won’t, Peter. We’re going to keep you safe. It’s your turn to be rescued, don’t you think?”

Tears welled in his eyes and he began to cry, May leaning over him in a careful hug. Peter wasn’t so sure he was worth rescuing but he knew this hadn’t helped clear up the mess. He’d have to find another way to fix what Beck had done but he wouldn’t need a blade to do it.

**Author's Note:**

> If you made it through that angst-fest, I commend you. Thanks for putting up with my miserable little fic, I hope you enjoyed it <3


End file.
